


Sometimes Family is the Most Terrifying Part of the Fairytale

by shirleyholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD Canon, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angsty Schmoop, BAMF!John, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Big Brother Mycroft, Christmas, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Holidays, Humor, M/M, Male Slash, Marriage Proposal, Mycroft's Meddling, Oblivious!Sherlock - Freeform, Original Character(s), POV John Watson, POV Mummy Holmes, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Romance, Sexual Tension, Smut, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Work In Progress, meddling mummy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 17,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's a bit apprehensive about spending a pre-holiday weekend with Sherlock's family and, it turns out, not without reason:  Mummy is determined to find her youngest son a more 'suitable' mate, Sherlock's completely oblivious, and, as usual, it's up to Mycroft to save the day. Though, of course, when you're at the Holmes', nothing is ever quite so simple. </p><p> A Johnlock Christmas story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted Christmas and Johnlock and a truckload of ridiculous Holmesian antics with some angst, so there you go, this is what happens when you let me loose on my keyboard with holiday spirit on the brain. Honestly a "just for fun" type work.
> 
> Inspired by a prompt on the kink meme which requested Mummy Holmes' taking an instant dislike to John Watson, though it's rapidly spun *a bit* out of control. Each chapter is the POV of one of 4 characters (Mycroft, Sherlock, John and Mummy), though someone else might eventually slip in. 
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: This takes place about a year and a half after Sherlock returns from Reichenbach.

Mycroft knows.

It’s in the crumpled skin of John’s face and the slight shake of his hand. 

The almost haunted look of a proud man who has had his worst fears confirmed.

It’s in the smug, secret smile on Mummy’s lips. How she coddles Sherlock, asking him if he’d like a touch more tea, a bit of cake. 

Sherlock’s oblivious, of course. That’s the reason Sherlock was never quite as good as Mycroft when it came to deducing. Sherlock’s not objective, he lets emotions and feelings cloud his judgement and it’s frustrating really, because some things are really quite obvious, and Mycroft has little patience for self-indulgence. 

Some would say Mycroft has no emotions. He politely disagrees, thank you very much, though he probably wouldn’t tell you so. He has very few, admittedly, but he prides himself on being rational despite them. Unlike SOME people he could name, who deny the existence of feelings altogether and then fall prey to their own delusions.

John sends Sherlock’s back a lingering glance, a heart-breaking mix of longing and loyalty and acceptance that is almost indecent in it’s intensity, while the genius laughs, actually laughs at a joke Mummy makes. 

Mummy smiles delightedly, her eyes catching John’s purposefully for a second. John bites his lip and Mycroft really wants to shake the both of them, Mummy for her hurtful games and John, who, after all this time, somehow still doesn’t recognize blatant manipulation when it’s staring him in the face. 

Mycroft loves and despises his mother in equal measures. They’re the same, her and he, though he likes to believe that he commits no more than necessary evils and that too, only for good causes. He cannot deny though... He feels the love of the game, the pride when someone crumples before a clever bit of manipulation. It would frighten him, if he didn’t have quite so much faith in himself.

Right now, watching Mummy meddling with what is possibly the best thing to ever happen to his brother, it frightens him anyways. 

Well. Mycroft’s just going to wait this one out. He’s fairly sure John would never leave Sherlock and Sherlock, though often rather childish, is devoted to his army doctor.

Mycroft takes a sip of his fine Darjeeling, wincing at the lack of sugar, and watches the scene unfold before him.


	2. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some not-so-but-kind-of explicit smut ahoy!

(A Few Days Earlier)

...........................

“John, where’s my purple shirt? JOHN. John, I can’t find it. ”

“Sherlock, just because Mrs. Hudson refuses to be your housekeeper doesn’t automatically mean I am, you know.”

“You do the laundry, John, I should _expect_ you would know.” 

“They tell me you’re the genius, you find it,” John retorts, sliding further down in his comfortable armchair. It’s around 11 am on a Friday, the Friday they’re supposed to leave for a nice, pre-Christmas weekend up in the country with Sherlock’s family. 

John’s not concerned. No. He’s fine. FINE... All right, then. He’s a little concerned. Considering what he’s met of the Holmes family so far, he’d be mad not to be. And yet, John muses, eyeing his neatly packed suitcase already sitting next to the doorway, he’s the one shagging Sherlock Holmes, so perhaps he’s already lost his grip on sanity. 

The aforementioned genius chooses this moment to put in an appearance. Sherlock plops himself down onto the arm of John’s chair and brandishes a wrinkled purple shirt in his face. “Found it!” he exclaims gleefully, shaking his still wet hair.

John really, really should care about the fact that his new jumper is getting assaulted by water droplets. But he’s a touch distracted and it’s fairly understandable, he thinks. Considering that Sherlock is millimeters away, wearing a damp towel and nothing else. 

Sherlock starts to pull the shirt on, wet hair and all and John clears his throat. “You’ll be catching a cold if you don’t dry your hair.”

He gets up and lightly caresses the exposed skin on Sherlock’s thigh, where the towel has ridden up. “And I wouldn’t want you to get that button-down wet, I just washed it.” 

Sherlock tosses the shirt carelessly onto the floor, reading John’s intentions as easily as he always does. 'Course, it's hard to mistake a hand caressing your thigh, oblivious genius or not. “Care to help me dry off, doctor?” Sherlock asks now, dropping his voice to an impossibly sultry pitch. 

John snorts at the blatant manipulation. "Not entirely my job description, but yeah, I think I can handle it.". He grasps Sherlock by the hips and steps between his splayed legs, pushing aside the already disheveled towel as he does so. He brushes his fingertips down Sherlock’s taut abdomen, presses his hand to the slight curve of his waist. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, leaning in to mouth the angled jaw. 

“John-” Sherlock clasps his hands around John’s neck, his hardening cock brushing against the thick jumper in front of him. John smiles. He enjoys the rare moments in which he manages to wrestle control and right now, the detective is looking up at him with eyes blown wide, hair rapidly drying into a riot of messy curls. 

“I should just turn you over and take you right now,” John murmurs, tracing the line of Sherlock’s open mouth with his fingers. “Spread that lovely arse and fuck you into the sofa...”

“For god’s sakes,” Sherlock growls impatiently, threading his fingers into John’s hair. "Stop talking and do it, John, if you're going to." It's an transparent challenge, of course, and John really shouldn’t relinquish control right now, he should do exactly as he just said he would...

He can’t help himself. He drops to his knees and wraps his lips around Sherlock’s cock, tasting the salty pre-come gathering at the tip. Sherlock arches backwards in surprise, nearly losing his balance, before he tightens his hold on John’s hair.

“John-- fuck-". He gives up, throwing back his long neck, his eyes clenched shut and his lips parted in a perfect O. 

This is why John does it. He does it so he can hear Sherlock’s pleading, so that he can witness his loss of control and know that he’s the only one who has this right. The right to make the gorgeous man in front of him come completely undone. 

He takes him in deeper, slides a hand up his thigh, luxuriating in Sherlock’s pleasure. But, of course, it doesn’t last long, and Sherlock pulls him up roughly, kissing him, tasting himself off of John’s tongue. He snakes his hand down and unzips John’s trousers, desperate and wanting and John takes his face in his hands and gives himself over to kisses. 

Sherlock draws him closer, fists the two of them together and it’s hot and quick, the gentle rub of his palms against the come-slicked skin. It isn’t long before Sherlock’s shaking, as he comes all over his own hands and John’s clothes and it’s the sight of him, trembling and undone, that sends John over the edge too, his mouth still desperately pressed to Sherlock’s open lips. 

“Sherlock - I- I love-”

“Don’t.” Sherlock’s voice is unexpectedly fierce. John tries to back away, slightly hurt, but Sherlock stands and pulls him back, hands fisting into the ruined jumper. 

“Not now,” he clarifies. “You don’t mean it now, your oxytocin and dopamine levels are remarkably high, as you have just reached a state of orgasm-”

John bursts out laughing and hugs his detective, before tilting his face up to catch those grey eyes. “I’ll always mean it, you git. Now or later. I love you. Who wouldn’t?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I certainly hope that’s a rhetorical question,” he comments dryly. But a smile tugs at his mouth and he pulls John backwards so that they both tumble awkwardly onto the cramped armchair. 

“Hell- lemme go- Sherlock!”

Sherlock wraps his arms around John, clearly with no intention of doing any such thing.

“We’re going to be late, you know,” John remarks, with no real conviction.

Sherlock kisses him again. “Most likely,” he agrees.


	3. Mycroft

“He’s late,” Violet Holmes notes flatly. The tea has long since cooled at the table. Mycroft eyes the biscuits and decides he really shouldn’t. 

“They’re not exactly the best with timeliness, Mummy,” he says. Mycroft is a master of the understatement. 

The chocolate digestive looks particularly tempting. 

Not-Anthea (whose real name is actually Charlotte and who has long since cultivated the ability to read Mycroft’s every thought) places a gentle hand on his wrist without looking up from her Blackberry.

“Verner and Sigrina should be here soon with the children,” she remarks. “And of course, Sherrinford....”

Mycroft coughs loudly. “Yes, well, I’m sure we can wait for them. It’s barely past tea-”

It’s too late. “Who invited Sherrinford?” Violet demands, her thin form tensing with annoyance. 

“Mummy, you know how it would upset Sherlock if we didn’t invite Sherr-Sherrinford and honestly-”

Violet’s eyes soften slightly. “Oh Sherlock, he was always such a big-hearted boy. I always worry about him, you know. He does let people take such advantage of him, and especially when-”

“Mummy, I assure you, Sherlock is quite well looked after and his new companion-

Violet Holmes cuts in sharply. “Yes I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Mycroft. Is he- Are they-”

“I believe they have reached what might be referred to as an “understanding’,” Mycroft says delicately. 

He shoots a pleading look at Charlotte-not-Anthea, but she shakes her head and moves the plate of biscuits further away. He sighs and pours himself a cup of lukewarm tea instead.

“You mean-” Violet’s eyes widen in horror as she accurately reads between the lines. “You mean they’re sleeping together? Mycroft, how could you?”

“Well, I hardly think it’s my perogative- and I’m sure they’re happy-”

Anger builds in her voice. “Happy? Happy because he doesn’t know any better, but YOU certainly should. Sherlock’s not- he’s not-”

“He is likely of a bisexual orientation, Mummy.” Mycroft is distinctly uncomfortable now. 

Violet careens right over him. “So this man- has convinced Sherlock that’s he’s- that he’s-”

“Mummy, listen to me, nobody can convince Sherlock to do anything he doesn’t want to and John Watson is... Well, he’s a good man.” Mycroft decides not to mention that John was also, for all intents and purposes, convinced he was heterosexual before he met Sherlock.

No. Mycroft Holmes is a firm believer in the no-information-unless-absolutely-necessary policy. 

“It doesn’t change the fact that-”

“Lady Holmes, I suggest you meet Dr. Watson first. He has saved Sherlock’s life on countless occasions and would die himself before he let any harm befall Sherlock.” 

Violet and Mycroft both gape at Charlotte, who continues typing away placidly. She looks up. 

“Well, it’s true. Sherlock wouldn’t even be alive after that last fiasco.” She delicately does NOT add that the fiasco was Sherlock's own fault and had something to do with testing the level of cyanide in apple seeds. Somethings one does not tell one's boss's mother- or anyone's mother, really. 

Violet sweeps her hand dismissively and luckily, doesn't inquire into details. “Fine. Let’s meet this Dr. Watson.”

She gets up from the table, but not before Mycroft sees a tell-tale glint in her eyes. 

“Mummy- you will- you won’t-” Only Violet Holmes could have Mycroft blathering like this.

But Violet only smiles. “Rest assured Mycroft. I always take care of my own.”

And with that she’s gone, her chic heels tip-tapping along the corridor. Mycroft swallows and, before Charlotte can stop him, swipes the chocolate digestive. 

He’s pretty sure he deserves it.


	4. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherry Holmes (Zooey Deschanel looks like fem!lock to me all the time, so, with a different accent, this is what Sherry looks like in my head): http://monkeypantz.net/fabulous-friday-zooey-deschanel/

The special car Mycroft sent for them has barely stopped before Sherlock wrenches open the door and bursts out into the fresh air.

“Jesus, Sherlock, slow down,” John’s voice is slightly aggravated but mostly amused. Sherlock calculates that he’s very likely to be forgiven if he ignores him. 

But then again, John is part of the fun. In fact, John IS the fun, as far as this holiday goes. Sherlock swirls dramatically around and grabs the most important component of his amusment firmly by the waist, ignoring its hiss of protest. 

“Must you be so slow? Mummy is waiting and I assure you, we are rather late-”

“And who’s fault is that, you wanker?” 

Sherlock’s mouth twitches at John’s mock annoyance. “Irrelevant,” he says, because that will serve to rile John up further and John riled up is rather delicious.

But at that moment the door of the sprawling Tudor estate swings open and a tall, slim girl of about 17 steps out, her mouth curved into an irresistible grin. Sherlock anticipates what she’s about to do a second before she actually does it, but by then it’s too late and she’s slipped her arms around his waist. 

Maybe if he just pats her back-- but she's having none of it. Sherrinford pulls him into a solid hug, which Sherlock is forced to patiently endure. He wriggles away as soon as her grip slackens. 

“John, this is my cousin, Miss -”

“Sherry.” She gives him a penetrating once-over and nods, as if he’s passed some sort of invisible test. Sherlock tries to see him as a stranger might, takes in his sharp, military bearing, the crisp polo and jacket he’s donned in place of his lumpy jumper. A flush of pride overwhelms him. 

“And you’re the doctor,” Sherry's evident approval echoes his thoughts. 

John opens his mouth and Sherlock can sense the disastrous pun about to emerge from his mouth as if it’s a tangible presence. 

“Yes, yes,”, he interjects, before John can finish. “Your cultural references grow tiresome and repetitiv-”

“David Tennant is my favorite,” Sherry informs them both. She's addresses John, who gives her a slightly dazed look for her efforts. “ Wouldn't have expected you to bring up that reference so quickly. Frankly, I was shocked you didn't mention anything to do with "The Princess Bride" on your blog after a “Study in Pink” but that’s neither here nor there. Oh dear, you must be a fan of the older doctors, my mistake-”

“Hang on,” John interrupts, apparently having processed the bit of Sherry's rambling that is actually important. “How is it that you know a rather lot about me? And that I’ve never heard of you before today?” 

He addresses Sherry, but glares pointedly at Sherlock, who simply nods approvingly.

“Precisely, John.” He turns on Sherry. “Should I presume I haven’t removed all the video cameras in our flat?”

John’s neck flushes immediately. He’s really entirely too obvious sometimes. “Are you- suggesting- Damn it Sherlock, we-er-”

Sherlock’s mind flicks to the scene in the morning and he shudders involuntarily. Well then. Perhaps John has a point after all. 

He shoots a look at Sherry, who’s looking entirely too entertained, clearly having deduced precisely what’s making them both so uncomfortable. 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure your sex tapes aren’t worth much," she says airily. “A bit vanilla-”

Sherlock can practically feel John stiffen besides him and sighs. Dull. He’s bored of this inanity already and there’s something far more important.

“Where’s mummy? I want her to meet John.”

Sherry tenses. Imperceptible, maybe, but Sherlock knows her and he knows how people lie. He searches her face intently but she gathers herself far too quickly. 

“Ah. Hmm. Why don’t you go on inside, Sherlock? John and I can get to know-”

“Absolutely not.” He glares at her, suddenly irritated. “What are you not telling me?”

“Nothing, I just thought-”

Sherlock tugs at John’s sleeve. “Come along, John.” 

Sherry purses her lips defensively. “Your funeral, brother.”


	5. Violet

Violet Holmes hears the car pull up outside (finally) and genuinely smiles. She’s not particularly attached to most of her family (she loves them, of course she does, it’s just- well, they’re a nuisance sometimes, really, and children do take up so much of one’s time, even when they’re older.)

But if she’s being honest (and she tries to be, with herself), Sherlock is her favorite, of all her children. He’s a bit more vulnerable than his older siblings and he was an adorable child if a bit of a handful. A lot of a handful.

/Mummy, why can’t I read the Tropic of Cancer yet and tell me more about Blackbeard, I like the part about the heads, and where did the moldy bread go, I wanted to experiment on it and why is the spot on Daddy’s lip that color, it’s not the same shade as YOUR lipstick.../

That was before, of course. She’s never been quite sure what drove Sherlock to the drugs in university or why he was such an outcast. Her boys both still think she doesn’t know how bad it really was, but she’s not stupid and she’s heard enough to make a mother’s heart sick with worry.

She thought, after, that it was getting better, that he’d grow up and start taking some responsibility for himself. But no, instead he insisted upon taking up this odd lifestyle, dashing about into danger, no pay, not even fame and she took that in stride too, because she does love Sherlock and, after all, money isn’t the issue. She often thinks he could have been something truly brilliant, a scientist, a philosopher, but Sherlock is, above all things, stubborn.

But now, this doctor. Well. Mycroft can think what he likes, but he’s clearly not a good influence. That was irrevocably proven 4 years ago, when she had to bury her son, bury him and to be told afterwards... To be told that he’d jumped because of this one doctor, the one who couldn’t even be bothered to turn up to his funeral.

Mycroft refused to talk about it. Said the Doctor was in shock, but it was her son and she was there, wasn’t she and then he came back.

She insisted upon seeing him. The gaunt, scarred creature with haunted eyes that he’d become. All for this man she’d never even met and he refused to stay, said he had to go back, for John, John.... and of course, she’d suspected.

Well, she’d been right, clearly. She’d thought it was a phase, in university, when Sherlock brought home that boy, Sebastian, but if it isn’t... 

Violet stretches gracefully and accepts it. Sherlock will always be attracted to men as well as women, but that doesn’t mean does it, that he can’t settle down with a nice girl, one of her friend's daughters. That lovely Miss Hunter, for instance, she’ll make sure to call her for Christmas dinner. 28, a successful lawyer. And if he insists... Well, there are some good men out there. Successful, stable. 

Sherlock has options. She just needs to make sure he knows that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment/let me know how it's going! I love comments and criticism :)


	6. John

Fucking hell, this house. Mansion. Whatever.

John resists the urge to fiddle with his worn coat as he takes in the lavish sitting room, all dark, antiquated wood and delicate adornments. Glass mirrors and gold-framed paintings on the wall, a stone bust that judges him silently from the corner: This is more museum than home. He can just a see a guide leading a tour group through the gloomy halls, /“And this is where Sherlock Holmes was born and where he gave his godmother a heart attack when he told everyone about her affair with the gardener and the hole where he blew up the Christmas tree and...”/

John shakes his head at the fancy, but it occurs to him, suddenly, that Sherlock and Mycroft actually lived here, as children, and that it must have been an odd sort of childhood indeed. He thinks of his own home, all worn edges and spilled drinks on the soft carpeting, airy and warm. Not quite so as luxurious as all this, sure, but cozy, a word that could never be applied to the Holmes mansion. 

“Proper haunted house, isn’t?” John jokes weakly. “Have any spirits wandering in the attic?”

Sherlock frowns as he removes his cashmere scarf. “Don’t be silly John, spirits don’t-”

“I imagine it’s a joke,” Sherry cuts in dryly. “I can see you still don’t have any sense of humor to speak of.”

“That’s not quite true,” John starts to say and then stops. He’s not sure if adding ‘he’s always giggling at crime scenes’ is really going to help matters.

Sherry winks at him, as if she’d known what he was about to say anyways. Which she probably did-Oh just bloody fantastic, that’s all he needs right now. A house full of mind readers, as if Sherlock’s deductions aren’t enough to be contending with. 

A soft tip tap of heels sounds in the corridor outside, interrupting his thoughts, and Sherry springs almost comically out of her chair. “My cue to leave then, I should think.”

Sherlock snorts. “Oh for heaven’s sakes don’t tell me you still indulge in that childish feud with mummy-”

“It’s not childish, Sherlock,” Sherry snaps. She takes a quick breath. “Just because you don’t ever see-” 

There’s a tap at the door and a tall, handsome woman with neatly bobbed hair walks in. Sherlock’s mother. Has to be, with those flashing eyes, so alien and mercurial. The resemblance ends there however: her face is pointed, her hair straight and light. 

“Am I intruding on something?” she inquires sweetly. 

“No madam. I was just about to leave,” Sherry informs her and turns to go.

“Oh don’t be silly, Sherry dear,” Mrs. Holmes responds, lithely folding herself into a chair. John’s reminded forcibly of Sherlock’s own feline grace... And something else too, though he can’t quite put his finger on it.

“Yes, do stay Sherry,” Sherlock remarks, tone slightly ironic. Sherry narrows her wide brown eyes in petulant wrath, and suddenly, John sees the family resemblance there too, the subtly sharp lines of her clenched jaw and haughty cheekbones, the fullness of her pursed lips against creamy skin and dark curls. It’s unnerving, the sudden break in her cheerful veneer, and he realizes then what it is that bothers him about Mrs. Holmes. Different as they all look, both Sherry and Mrs. Holmes seem to mostly share that aura of distant, faked emotion, that Sherlock so often substitutes for his real feelings. It’s like people just going through the motions of being human. 

“Very well then,” Sherry says, her mask slipping smoothly back into place. She drops bonelessly into a rigid velvet armchair, as if deliberately mocking the sinuous grace of her Aunt.

John wonders what she could possibly be in a strop about already. It makes him vaguely nervous, because, under her nonchalance, she’s clearly quite upset. 

Then again, sulking childishly at the drop of a hat might just be a family trait trait. Just my luck, he thinks ruefully, sneaking a glance at Sherlock.

To his shock, Sherlock’s positively beaming. It’s not the stretched lips over teeth grin that’s his usual fall back, but an honest smile that, coupled with his straight posture (no sprawling out over the furniture here), makes him appear almost normal for once.

“Mummy, I wanted you to meet John.” Sherlock grabs him swiftly by the elbow and John obligingly turns, waiting for an introduction. 

But Sherlock doesn’t appear to want to bother with such paltry pleasantries. Instead he’s staring at John as if he’s just seen him and John’s all too conscious of how out of place he must look, among this luxurious setting. He meets Sherlock’s eyes uneasily and, sure enough, there’s an element of shock there. /Well, you know what I look like Sherlock, surely it can't bother you now--/

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Holmes,” he says finally, breaking both the uncomfortable silence and the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze.

She turns the full force of those magnificent eyes on him. Apparently it’s National Stare at John Day and he wasn’t informed.

“Oh, please, don’t call me Mrs. Holmes,” she says, graciously. 

“Thank you, Vio-”

“Lady Holmes will do just fine,” she finishes, smiling. John stares at her and he could swear, that pleased grin, as if she’s trapped him into it. 

Sherry makes an uncouth noise that sounds remarkably like a snort. No one turns to her, but she comments anyways:

“Surely it’s not necessary for your future son-in-law-”

Ah. A bit of an assumption, that. John can practically feel Lady Holmes’ eyebrows shooting into her hairline and Sherlock glares at her, as much at the implication of marriage as at anything else, John suspects. To his surprise, Sherry subsides, though not without an annoyed huff. Apparently they all communicate via their own mental language as well. This is getting to be a lot more than he bargained for already. 

“Well we all have our quirks,” Lady Holmes breaks the strained silence first. “I’m sure John won’t deny me my little indulgences, will you John?”

“No-I-” It sounds alright really, put that way and well, he’d known he’d signed up for hell when he decided to come, hadn’t he? So Lady Holmes insists upon putting on airs: Not as if her son is any different-

Sherlock is different, John thinks. But he can’t quite put his finger on it. 

Sherlock clears his throat. “John used to be in the army: a captain. He’s a doctor now, but still one of the best shooters-”

And really that’s ridiculously complimentary for Sherlock and John should be pleased, but he can't help but think it's a bit heavy-handed to be casually airing John's entire resume for inspection. It feels too much like a justification and Violet's still eyeing him curiously, so perhaps not a very effective one at that--

He’s being silly. He’s letting little things get to him, just because he’s nervous and that’s not fair to Sherlock. Impulsively, he squeezes the detective's hand, still loped casually about his elbow, and is rewarded with a faintly pleased smile in his direction. 

“Have to be on top of my game, I suppose, running around with the most intelligent man on the continent,” he laughs, deciding to shrug it off. “Don’t know if I could keep up with any of it without him.” 

“That’s nice, dear,” Lady Holmes flashes them an admittedly charming smile. “Now it’s wonderful to meet you and I’m sorry to be so abrupt, but you must excuse me: There’s preparations to be made: Supper at 7, I should think.”

She slips off her chair, adding, almost as an afterthought: “Oh and, of course, I’ve invited a few old friends of yours Sherlock. I’m sure it’ll be quite the occasion, don’t you?”


	7. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you're curious and super-visual, like me (feel free to skip), here are the actors and their outfits as I see them, more or less. I wasn't super creative with these, I admit, but it was a brilliant time-waster :) 
> 
> John: (though his tie and pocket square are grey as I couldn't see him donning that shade of sea-foam): http://madlori.tumblr.com/post/19424665089. I had a brief, but passing desire to put him into Martin's 3 piece purple layout with paisley tie, but I have a modicum of restraint left, it seems *sigh* 
> 
> Violet Anne Hunter (Anne Hathaway, with a British accent and a shorter variation of this dress) http://www.zimbio.com/pictures/1bR3SyFYet/2011+Vanity+Fair+Oscar+Party+Hosted+Graydon/kQ11u_PD6C2/Anne+Hathaway 
> 
> Sherlock is an ass and is therefore wearing a silky black button down, a perfectly tailored black suit and no tie. To a Christmas party. 
> 
> Sorry. Yes, I really had to. Violet and Victor forthcoming.

Dinner is boring. A nuisance compromised of the nattering of insipid, dull people and the choking smell of fragrance and sweat and food. In inviting ‘a couple of people’ Violet has managed to flood the house, which doesn’t surprise him, but honestly, surely someone could try to be a bit interesting...

Sherlock slinks into the next room, and lounges against the wall, knowing no one will miss him for a bit. He briefly debates the probability of one of the guests secretly being a criminal mastermind or, perhaps, a world-class spy (he'd settle, at this point), but decides it’s not likely. Then again, knowing the sort of company his family keeps-

“Well, so this is-er- nice.” John knows exactly where to find him at a crowded party, of course. Not anywhere near the people, for one. 

Speaking of insipid, dull things to say-Sherlock rounds on John, who’s unintentionally infused his quiet hideaway with banality, a cutting “Obvious” neatly waiting to be unfurled from his tongue...

And stops at the image of a certain Dr. John Watson, attired in a new, perfectly tailored, suit. /Why do I ever allow you to wear any color that isn’t precisely that shade of cobalt?/ he finds himself wanting to demand instead. 

“Sherlock, you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Staring at me. Like I have a stain-” John’s hands go up to his grey silk tie.

“Staring? I’m not staring. Why would I be staring?”

John’s mouth twitches in sudden understanding. “I see. So you like the suit?”

Sherlock gives him another cursory glance before turning his gaze determinedly to the ceiling. “Remind me I owe Mycroft a favor,” he mutters resentfully.

John coughs lightly into his fist. “That good, huh?” he says. “Frankly, the pocket square and matching tie had me wanting to run for the hills but...” 

He takes a glance around the room, but they’re well hidden here, slightly blocked from view by a massive cabinet full of old-fashioned fire arms and Sherlock’s suddenly grateful for his penchant for secrecy. John pulls Sherlock down by the back of his collar and rubs just his thumb across the sharp cheekbones, then down, slipping lower to caress the side of his mouth.

Sherlock’s lips part as John traces them lightly with the pads of his fingers, slightly wet where Sherlock’s tongue flicks out to try and capture them. John gives him just the tip of his middle finger and Sherlock wraps his lips around it immediately, sucking gently at the ridged calluses. The doctor's eyes are blown wide despite the dim light and Sherlock wraps his arms around the shorter man's neck, leaning forward to steal a kiss--

“Well, glad to see you’re amusing yourselves, boys.” 

They jump apart as Mycroft eyes both of them disdainfully. 

“Nevermind John. I believe I don’t owe Mycroft a favor any longer,” Sherlock announces, recovering his calculated sarcasm quite quickly, under the circumstances.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Oh don’t you? And if Mummy had discovered you skulking in this corner, acting like a pair of overly hormonal teenagers? Behave yourself, both of you. Socialize.”

Sherlock can feel his pout forming. “Socialize? With this obnoxious band of-”

“No, Mycroft’s right.” John’s flush is clashing magnificently with his outfit but he manages an ironic grin. “Let’s meet all these people. I’m sure they're some wonderful crackpots in here.”

Sherlock sniffs. “Not anyone remotely that interesting-” His gaze lingers on John’s wide eyes, a heady deep blue from reflecting his suit and huffs. “Well. Mostly not that interesting-”

Mycroft loses patience and lands the umbrella he’s been twirling (why he has it in the house is anyone’s guess) firmly on Sherlock’s foot. “GO.”

Sherlock yelps, more out of outrage than actual pain, and John takes the opportunity to drag him away, possibly preventing Word War III in the process. 

Sherlock barely has time to properly put on his sulking face on before they’re enveloped in the chattering crowd.

“Here, stay here, I’ll go get you a drink, alright?”

“No. You are not leaving me to these insufferable-” Sherlock never finishes his sentence, as a leggy brunette in deep crimson chooses that moment to materialize at his side. He immediately senses John’s appreciative approval and bristles. No. John is not allowed to look at women. That is not part of the deal. He carefully edges in front of him, blocking her from view. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” Her sweet, lilting voice practically purrs in delight. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“It’s my house,” Sherlock points out reasonably. He rakes his eyes up and down her figure and she flushes, as if he’s done something wildly inappropriate. No. Scratch that. Dilated pupils- Really?

He runs a finger up the side of her neck, feeling her pulse point to test his hypothesis. Yes. Aroused. Interesting.

She makes an odd, choked, breathy sound and he drops his hands back at his side quickly. “How are you, Anne?”

Anne laughs and he doesn’t like that either, because it’s too high-pitched, doesn’t sound natural. Sherlock shuffles completely in front of John. She is not getting to see him. That much is certain. 

John apparently has other ideas. “Anne?” He steps out from behind Sherlock and shoots him a strange look. Flinty- creased eyes- Oh. 

“You’re upset? Why are you upset?” 

“Sherlock. Not here.”

“But I haven’t-”

Anne bats her eyes at him and Sherlock nearly growls. 

“Violet Anne Hunter. Sherlock refuses to call me by my first name though, so I’m Anne in this household,” she laughs again, tossing her red-tinged mane. 

“You have the same name as Sherlock’s mother,” John observes. 

Obvious. It doesn’t help Sherlock’s opinion of her. He has very definite opinions about people with the same name as his mother and most of them involve the inability of these people to live up to their given name. He’s churlishly chosen to call her Anne for that very reason, though everyone seems to suffer under the delusion that it’s an endearing pet name of sorts. 

She, is, he supposes, attractive. He supposes this because John has a touch of admiration in his face and that is absolutely unacceptable.

Nothing for it then.

“University graduate, you’re working at a law firm, but you don’t enjoy it, recently broken up with your boyfriend of a few months- Why-"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your comments and for sticking with me, I really appreciate it, as always! :)


	8. Violet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm having WAY too much fun with these: 
> 
> Violet Holmes (Helen Mirren. Clearly. How could it be anyone else?): http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000545/  
> Dorothy Holmes: In my head, she's a taller and much older version of Helena Bonham Carter. http://www.photoevery.com/tag/helena-bonham-carter-2/

Violet Holmes has been keeping an eye on Sherlock, of course. He’s agreed to come, because both of her boys know better than to argue with her, but that doesn’t mean he’ll behave. Not her Sherlock. From the beginning, asking him to a gathering was trouble. He never did know when to keep his mouth shut, really and he’d never grown out of it.

And so she watches him carefully, nudging Mycroft when he disappears into the next room and Dr. Watson slips in after him. She has a party to manage though, guests to charm and she loses sight of him for a bit. Right now, she’s been waylaid by that infernal Sylvia Chatham, the one whose husband left her for a younger woman last year, and Violet, listening to her mindless chatter, has the rather unchivalrous thought that she isn’t even sure she blames him. 

“Yes, that’s hilarious--” The line is perfect, just the right amount of condescension, too little to pinpoint, enough to convey superiority. Violet’s eyes flit aimlessly about the room and then she sees them, Anne tossing her hair, flirting and then Sherlock- his face is turned away, but he’s far too close to Anne and it seems wildly inappropriate and if she knows him--Damn the boy.

“I’ll be right back, Sylvia,” she says firmly. “I just need to have a little chat with Sherlock.” 

“Oh,” Sylvia’s face brightens. She leans in conspiratorially. “Yes, he seems quite taken with Anne- Of course, here’s not the place, but she’s a darling, Violet- Oh, those two, just look at them--” Sylvia clucks, though not without a hint of glee.

Violet considers. Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees Sherlock run a finger possessively down Anne’s neck and flinches at the utter lack of propriety. But she’s still smiling, thank heaven, and yes, inappropriate, but something about them-- 

“They’re a beautiful couple, Violet.”

“Yes,” Violet nods thoughtfully. “Yes, they are aren’t they?” 

It’s not that it’s never occurred to her before (she’d been careful with her guest list, after all) but the very fact that Anne has yet to scream and run is possibly a much greater sign in her favor than Violet had dared to hope for.

But then there’s that doctor, and he’s clearly making a nuisance of himself and Violet can’t have that. She brushes off Mrs. Chatham (who’s still tittering) and heads to the corner.

She can practically feel the tension as she approaches and she’s not entirely sure it’s sexual. Sherlock draws himself up, clearly in a bit of a strop over something and his voice carries:

“Why- oh of course, serial dater, can’t take anything seriously look at her jewelry, John, she changes it-”

“Ah, Anne,” Violet interrupts smoothly. She slips an arm around the younger woman’s waist. “I haven’t seen you in such a long time, dear, how’s the new job going-”

To her relief, Anne still only looks enthralled, as opposed to insulted (which she probably ought to be, knowing Sherlock, but Violet's not about to question minor miracles). “Oh, you missed it, Violet, Sherlock just figured out how much I hate it, actually, but it’s not the job or law, it’s the boss. He’s terrible, you know.” 

Sherlock wrinkles his nose petulantly. “Always something.”

Anne places a hand delicately on his upper arm and steps forward slightly.“Don’t worry about it, Sherlock. You figured out I wasn't doing desk work anymore by the tan I had- That was brilliant-”

“You think so?” Sherlock asks, looking slightly mollified. Flattery, Violet notes, woud still get you anywhere with the boy. 

John clears his throat and blatantly allows his hand to drop to Sherlock’s waist. “Of course it was,” he says with a smile, and Anne glances, confused, from his obviously possessive grip to his carefully schooled face.

“Time for dinner, I should think,” Violet interjects. “John dear, would you come with me for a second? There’s some people you should meet.”

Faint surprise creases John’s face, but he nods. “Of course, Lady Holmes.”

She’ll give him that, he’s certainly polite enough, but her boy, is, of course, not. Sherlock attempts to grab John’s arm and pull him back, almost reflexively. 

“Don’t be silly, Sherlock,” Violet says, far more sharply than she’d intended. She fixes him with a stern gaze and he visibly deflates. 

“It would be rude to leave Anne her by herself and I’m sure you two have much catching up to do--”

Sherlock looks like he wants to voice another opinion on that , but thinks better of it. A blank expression clicks neatly over his face. 

“Of course, Mummy,” he says. Violet accepts his unspoken apology with a nod. She’s certain some time in Anne’s company will change his attitude: The girl is, above all things, very charming. Not to mention, she’s always been a bit infatuated with Sherlock. 

She steers John away from the both of them. Not that she wants to entertain him, but there certainly is no use having Miss Violet Anne Hunter at this party if John is going to hover all over Sherlock for the duration.

“She’s a nice girl, isn’t she?” Violet can’t help herself sometimes. 

“Seems to be,” John says neutrally. He doesn’t seem too bothered and that, though less fun, pleases Violet. The less devoted the man is, the more likely that she can convince him this really is for the better.

She spots Verner in the corner, looking overly harassed with his plump toddler in one arm and a canape in the other. Harmless and flustered and no doubt John is fond of children or, at least, sympathetic to those who have them-

“Ah, Violet, is this the lucky man?” A cloying scent of Chanel, suspiciously still-black hair and a plump bosom; Violet forces a smile on her face.

“Dorothy. How wonderful to see you.”

“Something like that, yes,” Dorothy says brightly. She takes in John and smiles like she might devour him. “Ah yes. Finally.”

“Sorry ma’am, I”m afraid I don’t recall making your aquaintence,” John says, speech stilted and tense. 

“Dorothy Holmes,” Violet cuts in. She can’t possibly leave him with her, but she needs to get back to the party and really, what harm can it do?

“Siger’s sister,” Dorothy nods agreeably. “Army doctor, are you? Nice touch, I must say. Very nice.” 

“Siger-” John’s confused and Violet sighs, aggrieved at having to explain. 

“My late husband. And this is his sister. Sherlock’s aunt.” And a bloody menace, not that Violet’s about to voice that opinion out loud. Dorothy Holmes is an intimidating woman with a deep voice and an opinion on everything: her face is too cunning to be pretty, too impressive to be ignored. A stark contrast to her brother, who had been a stern, contained (though, of course, quite intelligent) man. 

Violet reflects that the Holmes gene certainly has a way of making its presence known. 

“I’ll take him from here, dear,” Dorothy says triumphantly. She hooks a pale arm through John’s elbow. “He’s rather dashing. A bit plain, but military men, you know how I feel about military men.”

John’s eyes go a bit wide, but he manages to control his expression. Barely. 

“Don’t be silly, I don’t bite. Unless you want me to--”

John gulps, but Dorothy’s eyes are kind as she tugs at him. “Come along then,” she commands imperiously, rather like she’s dealing with a stubborn puppy.

Violet chances a quick glance at the corner, where Anne is clearly regaling Sherlock with some sort of story. They’re standing quite close, her hands nearly brushing his chest when she gestures. John follows her gaze and his mouth tightens slightly.

“I prefer no biting,” he remarks lightly, but he allows himself to be led away.

She’s hardly surprised when Mycroft materializes almost immediately at her elbow, clearly having been waiting for an opportunity. Violet smiles innocently up at him, knowing his question long before it leaves his lips. 

“Really Mummy? Miss Hunter? Of all people--”

“Any better ideas, Mycroft dear?” 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows in the direction of John’s retreating back. Violet just shakes her head and smiles.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous. Really, you boys must learn to trust me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we should see about seating everyone for dinner.”


	9. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, wow, thanks to everyone for all the encouragement! Thank you for commenting and reading and please continue! :)

Dorothy would be terrifying, if John was a lesser man, but he’s not, and rather unusually equipped to deal with eccentric people in the bargain. 

“So tell me John: there was quite a fuss about you and my nephew in the papers, you know- you’re his--”

“Flatmate,” John says automatically and then wonders why that has never stopped being his default answer. It’s by far the easiest response. “Friend” seems intentionally misleading, ‘partner’ clinical, ‘lover’ overtly sexualized, ‘boyfriend’ juvenile and inadequate (and clearly, he’s analyzed this more than he wants to admit, even to himself). Add in the fact that most of their aquaintances either make assumptions or don’t care and all in all, it’s not a conversation they’ve had. 

Dorothy is not fooled. It occurs to John to wonder briefly what, exactly, Sherlock has told his family. 

“Of course you are-- you know, it’s got to be a handful, living with him. He was such a strange child--but a bit of a horror, really-”

“He’s a strange man,” John confirms, aware of how strained his voice is. He still can’t quite, for the life of him, get the image of Anne and Sherlock out of his mind and it’s vaguely foolish, of course it is. He forces himself to relax. He’ll see Sherlock at dinner and he might as well make himself amiable to the rest of the family.

“As his father was- Siger. My brother was an odd man too, Doctor Watson, very cold: brilliant, of course, but cold. I often wondered if he had a heart at all--”

“Sherlock has a heart,” John snaps, far more sharply than he’d intended. He clears his throat, ready to apologize, but Dorothy merely gives him a smug smile.

“Does he now?” /And you would know/ the implication hangs and John flushes. He has to admit that he walked right into that one. With this family, it’s a mistake to let his guard down for even a second.

“Don’t be silly,” Dorothy says briskly, suddenly a lot less coquettish. “It’s perfectly obvious, unless you’re blind. Or unless you’re Violet, though I suppose that can’t be helped.”

“Lady Holmes has been kind, I would think--”

“Not the right word, I should think. Hospitable because she has no other options, yes, kind, no.”

John’s too wary of her to participate in this conversation. “If you’ll just excuse--”

Dorothy pins him in place with a steely gaze. “Young man, I know for a fact you have no other obligations. And I think we should talk.”

“Yes ma’am,” the reply pops out and Captain John Watson can’t help feeling like a reprimanded school boy. 

She offers him her arm again. “Get me a drink, will you? I rather suspect our seating will be arranged, but there should be room for some manipulation.  
…................

John ends up seated next to a slim brunette woman with a baby in one hand. A pinched young man whose main preoccupation appears to be stabbing angrily at his braised greens takes up the seat across from him. 

Violet has arranged the seating herself, thick cards with names in curling script adorning each place, very posh, he’s sure, but even John is not immune to the very telling fact that Sherlock is at the other end of the table. Anne sits across from him and a handsome man with chocolate hair claps him on the shoulder before sliding into the seat next to him. He can’t see Sherlock’s face from here, but, suddenly, that seems vitally important. Is he miserable? Even worse, is he enjoying himself? 

John’s about to say fuck all to table manners, and get up anyways when a familiar hand, soft and bejeweled, presses his shoulder down. Dorothy unceremoniously kicks the young man out of his seat and slides in across from John. She wrinkles her nose at the greens and pushes them away, cradling her glass of red wine instead. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t-”

“Oh shush. She’s not cruel, you know, she cares for them in her own way-loves them, in fact, she just doesn't know how one shows that. And what she can’t give them in love, she makes up for in coddling and material objects. ” The sudden picking up of their conversation ought to be shocking, but, of course, John doesn’t even feel the need to bat an eyelid. 

“Must have been a heck of a childhood,” John can’t help himself from saying. The house is cosy now, with firewood crackling and tasteful decor, the warm chatter of family and friends, but he remembers the gloom when it wasn’t and his throat is oddly tight, because Christ, no wonder Sherlock loves Christmas.

Dorothy eyes him shrewdly and suddenly he knows who she reminds him of. “She’s your daughter, then,” he blurts out and Dorothy, to her credit, knows immediately who he means.

“No,” she answers, swirling her crimson wine carelessly. “Sherrinford is not MY daughter.” 

“Oh, you’re her aunt then, sorry-- her parents--”

“Dead,” Dorothy sniffs. Clearly a touchy subject. John nods briefly. Next to him, the baby starts crying and John’s absurdly grateful, because this coversation seems to have taken a turn for the personal. 

“Sorry.”

“Did I say it was your fault?”

“No-- I-,” Damn social courtesy to hell. If the Holmes aren’t going to practice it, then neither is John.

“Tell me more about Sherlock’s family. All of you.”

Dorothy glances at him sharply and apparently sees something she likes, for a slow smile curls around the edges of her mouth. “Now you’re talking, doctor.”

….............

He’d never told him. The prat had never, ever bothered to tell him.

“Siger didn’t mean to cheat, I don’t think. He was bored and I honestly don’t think it ever occurred to him that it might hurt Violet--”

“How did she find out?”  
.  
Dorothy eyes him speculatively. “Sherlock, of course. He couldn’t have been more than 7 at the time, but he was brilliant, even then, and Siger was careless, because he didn't give a damn and it all comes down to the fact that Violet doesn't wear coral lipstick. Washes her out, she says, and evidence like that is fairly damning. Honestly, I think she knew before that. Just didn't want to. Selectively stupid, maybe."

"And Siger?"

Dorothy drains the last of her glass. "Left. Didn’t take anything, simply walked out. He hated confrontation, didn’t care much for either his children or his wife--- resented them, I think, because they tied him down. He needed something fresh, after all those years. Bored. So very, very bored and that was it. Violet's really never been the same since.”

John has a sudden, vivid image of hearing about Sherlock’s time away, of figuring out that Irene was alive and Sherlock had stayed with her. Sherlock couldn’t understand why John was so upset. 

/But John, of course I didn’t tell you, why should it matter if Irene’s alive? Or if I stayed at her flat? She’s brilliant, of course, brilliant, brilliant--/

“He never meant to hurt her--” Dorothy says again, biting her lip. "Wouldn't have occurred to him that things like that hurt."

She glances at John and then pauses abruptly. “Oh don’t, Doctor Watson. Surely you know Sherlock better: you said yourself that he's different.”

John’s eyes flick down the length of the table, to where Anne’s hand taps perilously close to Sherlock’s fingers.

“I like to think so.”


	10. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victor Trevor: http://capitalpictures.photoshelter.com/image/I0000fMB2VlcsuAs 
> 
> Guessing you saw that coming.

Anne, Sherlock has to grudgingly admit, is not completely dull. She’s discoursing intelligently about some case involving the Italian mafia at the moment, from the bits he's payed attention to, and it’s even mildly interesting. They might almost be able to converse, he thinks, if she was more in control of her incessant twitching. When her fingers accidentally brush against his own for the fifth time, he is forced to move his hand back into his lap. It makes eating impossible, but that hardly bothers him.

“So Sherlock, I haven’t seen you in a very long time,” Victor says, taking advantage of a quiet lull. Anne gives him a flirtatious wink, transferring her attention from Sherlock for the first time in a while. 

“He means he missed you, Sherlock,” she coos.

“I suppose I did,” Victor confirms, a half-smile playing at his lips. “How are you, old friend?”

“Friend is a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?” Sherlock inquires. John might have found that a bit not good: after years together, Sherlock can fairly accurately predict what is and what isn’t ‘good’. That doesn’t mean he understands the logic. After all, his last memory of Victor is more traumatic, he thinks, than anything else.  
/  
“I’d like to think not, Sherlock.” Victor is quiet and Anne’s eyes dart in confusion from his weary expression to Sherlock’s sardonic smile.

“I suppose it’s been a while for all of us,” she says quickly. “Sherlock has new friends too now, don’t you love?”

“Don’t call me that,” Sherlock snaps, his temper rising suddenly. She flinches. Sherlock is three seconds away from pushing his chair away, but he glances up and there’s Mycroft, giving him a little shake of his head. Pouncy git. But mummy would be upset. 

He works his way out of his blazer and tosses it over his chair belligerently. Apparently he's going to be stuck here for a while. He catches Mycroft smiling magnanimously from the corner and barely resists the urge to make a rude gesture. 

“Sorry. I forgot-- you hate pet names,” Anne's berating herself. 

Victor simply smiles lightly. 

“Tell us about your friends, then,” he says, clearly trying to change the topic. 

Sherlock slinks down in his chair and rolls his eyes, but Anne snaps her fingers, latching back onto the subject easily. 

“Oh yes-- John, right? The doctor--Short, blond fellow, he’s really nice--”

"You've hardly met him," Sherlock growls.

"Well he seems pleasant enough: polite and all that-"

“Oh, you brought him?” Victor asks, far too casually. 

“Yes.” /Obvious/. 

“A colleague?” Those slim brown eyebrows are getting quite the workout, Sherlock notes disinterestedly. Anne seems to catch on to the subtext too, for she wrinkles her nose and leans in. 

“Must be a very close colleague of yours, Sherlock,” and her voices rises at the end, as if on a question.

There shouldn’t be a question. John is, of course, his good friend. Not his colleague. Sherlock loathes the word. 

“He is a very good /friend/,” Sherlock confirms, emphasizing the last word. Anne sits back, apparently satisfied. 

“So, did he not have anywhere else to go for Christmas?” Victor this time and Sherlock wonders why they’re so interested.

“No.” Well, John could have gone to Harriet’s, he supposes, but the idea of them not spending Christmas together is absurd. Anne’s smiling now, a bit smugly, and, for the first time, Sherlock feels like he’s missed something. Hateful creatures. 

Sherlock gets to his feet abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair in his haste

“Where are you goin---”

Sherlock simply ignores her and twirls dramatically, pushing into the crowd. He’s desperate, suddenly, to get out of the stifling room, the close choking of bodies and it’s not until he makes it into the dark library that he’s able to breathe. 

He rests his head against a shadowed wall, letting his eyes adjust. Maybe a light-- but no. He can see the balcony from here and he steps out, leaving the French doors open, and shivering slightly at the cold. Silly, to have left his suit jacket at the table, but there’s absolutely nothing that’s going to convince him to go back. 

A footstep, the muffled sound of shoes against carpeting. Sherlock doesn’t even turn around. 

“Hello, Victor.”

“Men’s heels against the carpet?”

“You breathe noisily.”

“No, I don’t.” His amusement is nearly tangible. “Cigarette?”

“No.”

“Ah. Doctor made you quit, hmm?”

“Hardly why---”

“Oh, yes it is.” 

“Tell me Victor," Sherlock spits out resentfully, bristling at his patronizing tone. "Exactly when were you planning on telling your dear father about your latent homosexual tendencies?”

Victor grimaces, tapping his cigarette against the railings. “I rather thought that was what this was about it.” 

“It was merely a question.” Sherlock raises his eyebrow, smiling coldly. “Or was it the wrong time to ask?” 

“Family is a funny thing, Sherlock. They profuse to love you, but, in the end, it’s not a choice they have. You should value people who make that choice.”

“I have been told I’m a difficult man to love, yes. What I don’t understand, Victor, is why people insist upon trying anyways.”

Victor is a shade too close now, his hand lightly brushing Sherlock’s shoulder. He leans forward, lips close enough that warm air shifts seductively against Sherlock’s skin when he speaks.

“I think you misunderstood me, Sherlock. I have, always--”

“No.” Sherlock deliberately recoils from the tightening hold on his shoulder. “Far too many years, Victor.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“Some of us attempt to fix ours, however.”

Victor doesn’t answer and later Sherlock will wonder why he didn’t see it coming, the swift step forwards, and maybe it’s shock or maybe it’s stupidity, but, either way, there’s no denying that Victor’s lips are pressed against his own, the warmth of his hand through Sherlock's thin shirt, steadying him. A minute, maybe more, no, maybe 12 seconds exactly, rough cotton blend under his hand and then Sherlock instinctively twists and shoves him away. They break apart, panting, breath misting together in the air and Sherlock wipes his mouth, glowering. 

"What--"

And then he hears it. A sharp intake of breathe, a precise military step forwards. Sherlock knows even before the familiar voice, heartbreaking in its fragile steadiness, floats out from behind him.

“Thought I’d find you here, love.”


	11. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just added this at the beginning, but, if you've been reading for a while, thought I'd slip it in here:
> 
> This takes place *about* a year and a half after the return from Reichenbach. Sherlock's a bit more emotional/understanding and John's a bit more protective/vulnerable, but I've tried to keep it fairly IC nonetheless (I mean, as far as IC goes for a Christmas romp with an established relationship, but YOU KNOW haha). Feel free to point out if you think it's sliding: one of my pet peeves is very OOC stories, unless it's done for a purpose (crack, dark!fic etc), but that doesn't mean I don't give in to some schmoop now and then. thanks again for my lovely readers and especially those who commented!

John sees Sherlock storm off, shoulders clenched with tension and rises immediately, tossing his napkin on the table. A pressure on his wrist stops him. 

“Let him be alone for a bit dear,” Dorothy advises cooly. “He’s not much for these gatherings.”

“Yeah, well, neither am I,” John mutters. From the corner of his eye, he sees the taller man from before follow him out and there’s something predatory in his step or maybe he’s just imagining it---

Right. Enough of that. John knows he’s treading a thin line: possessiveness is one thing, but Sherlock’s among friends here----oh sod it. 

He takes Dorothy’s hand and gives it a light tap, ignoring her raised eyebrows. “Excuse me. It was a pleasure, but I’ll just be--”

“Of course, Doctor,” Dorothy says smoothly and John gives her a curt nod before turning. Straight into Violet.

“Ah, excuse me for a second--”

“Did you not find the food satisfactory, doctor?”

“Fine, thanks, I just- Sherlock-”

“Sherlock’s simply catching up with an old friend, I believe. Here, why don’t you sit?”

“Er, thanks, but I think I’ll just--”

“Why, surely you’re not jealous?”

“Of what?” John’s a bit terser than he means to be, but Lady Holmes only smiles.

“Victor and Sherlock are old friends: you do know how gossipy people are though and what with Victor being so clearly enamoured, poor boy--”

“I don’t think--”

“Just silliness, two boys who happened to be close, once. No need to be Sherlock’s knight in shining armour all the time, dear.” Her tone suggests she’s joking, but there’s an admonishment and John feels a bit ashamed of himself. Of course--

“Stop it, Violet.” Dorothy interjects, her eyes fixed on Lady Holmes’ face. 

“What on earth--”

“I’m only going to tell you once. Stop. It.”

Violet gives John a thin-lipped smile. “John knows I’m teasing, don’t you?”

There’s something fluttering in John’s chest, an anxious beat tapping against his ribcage and suddenly, he's had enough. 

“Please excuse me,” he says, more firmly this time. He barely notices that he’s slipped into his military command mode or that Dorothy and Violet exchange loaded looks next to him.

“The balcony,” Violet calls after him. “You’ll find them both there, I should think.” He doesn’t pause to wonder at the smugness that creeps into her tone. 

He can hear them, barely, Victor’s slightly taller frame leaning in next to Sherlock’s rigid one, one hand resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. He doesn’t like it, the languorous intimacy of the moment, and he’s still telling himself he’s being ridiculous, that he should leave them, when Sherlock stiffens and stumbles back. 

Instinct takes over and John squares his shoulders and steps forward, just as Victor covers Sherlock’s lips with his own. Sherlock pushes him away almost immediately, almost sputtering, but John can’t help the involuntary breath that shatters his cover. His hackles are rising, fists curling automatically, but Victor apparently knows what's good for him, for he backs off, eyes wide with confusion. 

Sherlock ignores him, a look of naked vulnerability crossing his face as he fixes on John instead. 

“John---”

“Save it---”

Victor glances from one to the other and his face creases. “I’m sorry, I think I’ve misunderstood--”

“Clearly.” Sherlock spits out the word from in between clenched teeth. 

“Someone want to tell me what the fuck is going on?” There’s a shaking that John can’t stop this time, a furious anger at Sherlock for proving them all right--

“Victor was a bit presumptuous.” Sherlock’s pulled himself together now, his face closing off as he crosses his hands protectively across his chest. 

“Yes-- John, right? I didn’t realize Sherlock and you- are you? --well--It was my mistake. Sherlock didn’t--”

“I think, Victor, you’d better leave.” He can see it now, of course he can, he saw Sherlock push him away, but it’s the defensive curl of the detective’s body that convinces him, the sharp disdain that he wraps around himself like a shield. 

“I’m sorry- I-” Victor rubs his head wearily. “Of course.” He exits without another word, door closing behind him. John waits until the footsteps retreat, expression carefully blank.

“John- I--”

Five short steps and John has him by the collar, dragging him down and forcing a punishing kiss onto those ridiculous lips.

Sherlock stiffens in surprise, but John bites and sucks brutally at his lower lip until Sherlock lets him in with a groan, long arms slipping around John’s waist, body yielding completely.

John lets go abruptly, but Sherlock keeps his hands buried into the material of his blazer, pulling John closer so that he can examine the doctor's face. His own face clears, befuddlement slowly giving way to realization. 

“Oh. Reminding me who I belong to?” Sherlock drawls, straightening, a hint of amusement creeping in. “Surely, John, you know that-”

John just doesn’t want to hear it. He knows, of course he does, but the thought of that man----The detective’s slightly smug grin only fuels his anger, and he shoves Sherlock bodily up against the wall this time, cutting off his words and pressing into his space. His left knee forces itself between those lean thighs while his hand presses to the back of Sherlock’s neck and drags him down again, their lips crashing together in wet, sloppy kisses. 

Sherlock’s gone limp under him, slumping against the wall, his hands fluttering up to rest on John’s shoulders. “John, this is fool-”

“Shut up,” John orders. He rips at the first few buttons of the crisp black shirt, the tightness both arousing and infuriating at the same time. That entire room of people, oogling Sherlock’s chest, dammit, and he pulls, the strained material parting all too easily---

John brushes his fingertips down the length of Sherlock's chest, clenching his fingers under the half-done shirt, nails pressing into the muscle, and lowers his mouth, hot and bruising, to the skin. He flicks his tongue gently over a nipple and Sherlock grinds desperately against his knee, arching under his touch. 

“Take me to bed,” he demands hoarsely. “John-” 

“I said shut the fuck up.” 

John yanks him back roughly by the hair, hissing, lips possessively claiming his pulse, the sharp lines of his collarbone, Jesus, this man will be the death of him-- he runs a finger up the line of that long neck, tantalizingly thrown back, the pale skin slightly red just at his touch and hesitates.

“Do it.” Sherlock pants, reading him as easily as always. 

“People will see--”

“Do it, John.”

John bites down high on his neck without another word and Sherlock moans, fingers hooking softly into the material of his suit. One more nip and the skin is already red with the impression of his teeth and--

“Oh god, Sherlock,” John murmurs against his neck, anger draining out of him at the sight of his claim. He bites and licks at it, the bruise quickly taking to the pale skin. 

“I didn’t--”

“I know.” John rests his head against Sherlock’s bare chest. “I know, I just---I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Ever since we've been here-”

Long, thin arms wrap hesitantly around him. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not--”

“You’re right. It’s not.” 

John looks up, face twisting with concern. “I’m sorry---”

Sherlock continues over him. “It’s not okay, because how am I to get back to my room?”

John takes in his thoroughly debauched appearance, the shirt hanging lopsidedly over one shoulder, and snorts. Sherlock grins hesitantly. “So---”

“Er--” John buttons his shirt back up for him, smoothing uselessly over the wrinkles with his palms. He makes a half-hearted attempt to tuck it back in too, his fingers hooking over the edge of Sherlock’s trousers. The git doesn’t offer to help, merely circles John's wrist, pinning it in place.

"Jesus---Not here." 

Sherlock cheekily leans forward to steal another kiss and John gives up, wriggling away. "I don't want you walking back through the room like that---" 

“Chivalrous as always, John. I’m sure no one will notice--”

“No-- God, this works better in the films, doesn’t it?”

“It works better when you’re not about to walk into a room full of the most observant people in the whole of England,” Sherlock remarks dryly. “I suspect, however, that this might do them a world of good.”

John lets his fingers run down Sherlock’s neck and chuckles softly, a sudden burst of possessiveness drowning out his misgivings. “Yes. Yes, it just might.”


	12. Mycroft

Mycroft is heroically resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It’s a difficult task, when faced with your insufferably smug younger sibling and his blatantly obvious dash for the staircase. Luckily, only half the family has noticed. And perhaps, if he’s lucky, only a quarter have actually figured out what’s going on. Of course, knowing his family, that seems to be a bit optimistic. 

Charlotte slinks over, blackberry in hand and Mycroft allows himself to eye her tight black dress appreciatively. Despite the modest length and only slightly scooped neckline, the outfit is almost obscene in it’s clinginess.

“Oh, well done, my dear.”

She doesn’t even need to ask. “I find that people respond better to 'subtlety' here. Speaking of subtlety-”

“Let us not ruin what promises to at least be a mediocre night.”

“I wasn’t referring to your brother.”

“Oh--?” Mycroft wonders briefly if anything could possibly eclipse the dramatic spectacle of Sherlock Holmes, clothes rent with wrinkles, shirt untucked, cheeks flushed, coolly sweeping through the sitting room with an amused Doctor Watson at his heels.

He certainly hopes not. He doesn't think his heart can take it. 

“Unless it’s World War III, I’m fairly sure--”

“Victor Trevor.”

“Poor soul.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes, apparently deeming an answer to be a waste of breath. 

“He never did know when to give up,” Mycroft muses.

“I think there might have been some encouragement.”

“Yes, I don’t doubt it. I’m sure John will handle him, if he hasn’t already.”

“And of course, you already know about Miss Hunter.”

“That-- might possibly be an issue.”

Charlotte drops her phone into her handbag and faces him. “You know her history?”

“My dear, I know her past, present and likely her future-- what I do not comprehend is how mummy managed to overlook--”

“Even Sherlock did that.”

“Sherlock has always underestimated people. It is his weakness. He sees only what he wants to and what he wants to see is that everyone else around him is an utter imbecile.”

“Perhaps your mother---”

“No, mummy knows. She must.”

He pauses, working his jaw, before admitting, reluctantly: “I don’t know what game mummy’s playing. But I fear, Charlotte, that it may be more dangerous than she imagines.”


	13. Violet

Dorothy re-fills her wine glass as Violet idly taps her fingers against the tablecloth, suddenly drained. She knows what's coming and, sure enough, it's Dorothy who finally breaks the silence. 

“Will you think about what you’re doing?” 

“I assure you, I--” 

“No, don’t. Violet, he’s happy, I’ve never seen him this happy-”

“What do you care about happiness?” Violet hisses, lowering her head so that the cheerful chatter around them drowns out her voice.

"Are we really going to-- Look, I'm sorry, I admit, but I didn't-- it wasn't good for him."

"So you kept his secrets, encouraged him, let him tear apart our family. Well done." Violet's voice goes flat. They've had this conversation, in various forms, through the years, and it's as futile as it ever was. 

"He was my /brother/..."

"That's not an excuse." 

Dorothy rubs her eyes wearily. "I know. I do. But I couldn't see Siger like that-- he was such a bright boy, reserved, but brilliant and then something just /died/ inside him."

"When he married me, you mean." The long-ago bitterness leaves an acrid taste in her mouth. 

Dorothy shifts uncomfortably. "The lifestyle wasn't for him. He needed something else, beyond family and his books and he never found it. And then he'd come to visit and have these women and I thought-- I don't know what I thought, but I hoped, you know, that he'd find something that worked for him, some balance--"

"Yes, well, that worked out well, didn't it?" Violet twists her mouth into a pathetic approximation of a smile. 

Dorothy leans forward, eyes softening. "Sherlock has it though: Violet, he has that spark that makes him love life. The crime, the danger-- he thrives off of it. He'll never do what Siger did--"

"He already did, Dorothy, or have you forgotten so quickly?" She's exhausted, she is. She places an elbow on the table and allows her head to droop forwards. 

Dorothy isn't done yet though and she's not about to let go before she's had her say.

“It's not the same you know it isn't-- Look at him, just look at how alive he is now. And he loves John, that's part of it-- Don't you want that for your children?" 

Violet slams her palms into the table and glares at her. “Of course I do, dear, but you do remember, don’t you, that Sherlock isn’t actually capable of that sort of love--Infatuation, yes, obsession, yes, but healthy love--”

“Do you hear yourself?”

“I can give you the paperwork, if you’d prefer.”

“Bullshit. All of it. Sherlock’s not Siger, never was and if anything, /darling/, it’s you--”

“He’s always been like that.” Violet’s tone doesn’t change. Anyone watching them would simply see two ladies, chatting amicably. “He didn’t even-- he doesn’t understand, don’t you see? Someone says one nice thing to him and suddenly, Sherlock’s all over him, jumping from rooftops--”

Dorothy’s gaze sharpens. “You don’t believe it yourself, do you? But you thought it was simply the way Sherlock was and then John proved you wrong, so you dislike him, because he’s the only person who’s made your boy care, when even you couldn’t--”

“Wrong. I am simply protecting Sherlock. He makes up fantasies, Dorothy, lives in his own head.”

“Even you should be able to see how much John--”

"John? John, the man who didn't show up to his funeral? That John, Dorothy? The one who Sherlock's so infatuated with, he can't see straight and meanwhile, I haven't heard one thing from John Watson--"

"You've got the wrong end of it, talk to him--" 

Violet nearly spits, clenched fists belying the smile plastered to her face. “Acting is not a skill that’s hard to learn, even for a moderately intelligent man. You, of all people, should understand that. The worst thing for Sherlock will be thinking someone cares, when they don’t. And if you're right and he's truly decided to care-- he's going to shatter.” 

“Then let him make his own mistakes.”

“I can’t.” Violet’s surprised at how sure she is of this. “He’s never grown up.”

Just then, there's a slight commotion. Both women turn to the spectacle of Sherlock and his doctor, racing for the stairs, as if to prove Violet's point. Violet herself rises, her mouth pursing in distaste and turns to leave. 

“And he never will,” Dorothy calls after her. “Because you’ll never let him.”

A few people turn to stare, but there’s nothing in the words themselves that’s incriminating. It’s Dorothy’s voice, the sharp admonishment.

Violet forces a slight laugh. “Of course not, Dorothy dear, don’t be absurd.” She passes it off as a joke, smiling tightly, and follows them up the stairs.  
…..........

There’s a light from under Sherlock’s old room and she can hear some shuffling as drawers are opened.

“Where could it possibly---”

“Are you honestly telling me you forgot to pack more than one set of formal wear? For a Christmas weekend?”

“If you remember, I was distracted---”

Violet knocks loudly at the door and the conversation halts immediately.

“It’s just me dear-- I thought you’d want to know where your rooms are--”

Sherlock pokes his head out guiltily. “Of course Mummy- John can just stay here--”

“Actually, I think it would be best if John took Mycroft’s old room.”

“But--”

“He’ll be far more comfortable, dear, the bed in your room is hardly big enough for two people and with that shoulder, I’m not putting him on the ground--”

The logic is sound. It has to be, because there’s no point arguing with Sherlock unless your points are air-tight, as Violet knows from experience. 

“Sherlock, I think I found-- Oh. Hello.” 

“John, I thought I’d just show you your room, before I forget. I was just telling Sherlock, I made sure to set up your own place for you--”

“Oh well, that’s kind of you.” John scratches the back of his neck and exchanges a glance with Sherlock. She’s counting on a bit of natural British reticence to smooth her way and, sure enough, John doesn’t argue. Sherlock’s lip pouts a bit, but John clears his throat loudly and gives him a warning look, before lifting his bag. 

“Shall we?”

“Of course. Sherlock, do get dressed, I can’t think what you’ve done to your nice shirt-” She narrows her eyes at the ripped buttons. /What on Earth--?/

Sherlock glances at John, who shakes his head quickly. “Um, nothing?” he answers hopefully, eyes still fixed on John, who suppresses a smile. 

“Yes, er- see you in a bit then.”

Violet waits until the door closes behind them and then starts for the stairs. “I trust you can climb, Dr. Watson, even with your leg?”

“I don’t limp anymore-- did Sherlock---?”

“Your blog.”

“Oh, I thought--”

“I’m afraid I’m fairly human. Sherlock gets his abilities from his father, not to mention much of his personality. Though you do pick up on a few things, living with a Holmes, do you not?”

“Yes, that you do.” John relaxes at the mention of Sherlock, his eyes affectionate. “A bit of a handful, but worth it.”

Violet pauses. “I should congratulate you, John. I’ve never seen Sherlock quite so-- pliant.” 

“Oh, you wouldn’t say that if you saw him every day,” John laughs ruefully. “He’s brilliant, but god forbid you ask him to buy milk-”

“Well, he’s not used to that lifestyle. It must be difficult, making ends meet.”

John shrugs. “We get by. Nothing like this, of course---” he rakes his eyes appreciatively over the carved wooden banister and thick carpeting-- “But it’s exciting.”

“Ah, of course, you help him in his work; what is it precisely that you do?”

“Well, he’s a consulting detective---”

“I meant, what is it that /you/ do?”

“I’m a doctor.” 

“Well, surely they have those on the police force? And from what I remember, Sherlock has a fairly good knowledge of medicine--”

“And his blogger.” John finishes and frowns. “They do. Sherlock simply said they wouldn’t work with him.”

“I’d have thought it wouldn’t be necessary, what with his training--- ah, well. At least you’re a decent writer, John.”

“Er, thank you?” 

“I wouldn’t have expected you, you know. Sherlock’s type is usually a bit more-- flashy, shall we say?”

“Didn’t know he had a type,” John says lightly. A difficult man to anger, she senses, but his unsuspecting politeness makes him all the more susceptible to her brand of manipulation. 

“Well, Victor, clearly-- Very well-to-do and handsome, but such a charming, clever young man too: inherited quite a bit and then made good use of it-- Surely you’ve heard of the Trevors? We’re /quite/ close to them.”

“I--”

“And Anne. Well. Absolutely brilliant. Beautiful, goes without saying, but you should have seen them when they were younger. They’d play together, violin and piano, utterly gorgeous. Such a meeting of the minds, as it were.”

“Guess I’m different then. A bit of a beat-up military doctor--” John chuckles self-deprecatingly. 

“Yes. I must say, I was surprised.” It's too obviously cruel, too heavy-handed, but she's shaken by her conversation with Dorothy and not up to her usual game. 

“You know,” John says conversationally, a hint of a challenge creeping into his voice. “If I didn’t know better, Lady Holmes, I’d say---”

“And here we are.” Violet sweeps into the sparsely furnished bedroom, cutting him off firmly. John places his bag on the floor, his eyes taking in the cozy fireplace and antique decor. A Victorian-style four-poster bed, complete with heavy drapery, takes up the majority of the floor space. 

“Very nice,” he says, a trifle sardonically. There’s something bitter twisting into his expression and Violet smiles sweetly. Not such a mouse, this Dr. Watson. She’ll have to be a bit more subtle.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need me. I just want to see the rest of the guests off. You’re welcome to join.”

“Think I’m good for now, thanks.” John sighs heavily. Violet watches him drop onto the bed and bury his head in his hands before the door clicks shut behind her. 

Let him ruminate on that for a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DONE!! Well, clearly not done, but done with bringing it over from the kink meme: updates will be a bit less frequent now, but I hope to finish this within the next week or two-- though with finals looming, I make no promises! As always, please comment and criticize and yes, I'll keep reminding you. Thanks for reading so far! :)


	14. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY HEY HEY: So, if you were following this on the kink meme, you'll want to go back and re-read the last chapter. I added a few bits to the conversation with Dorothy and Violet that'll probably prove enlightening :) 
> 
> And now-- onto new material! Thanks if you're sticking with me here!

Sherlock has no desire to rejoin the antics downstairs, so he squanders as much time as humanely possible rifling through his meager suitcase. 

There’s a tap at his door just as he finds a plain, deep red, shirt and a smirk curls across his face. Clearly John is of the same opinion. He’s bounded off the bed and wrenched open the door before he realizes that the tap is too light, too hesitant. 

“Anne.”

“I hate it when you call me that,” she muses, leaning casually in the doorway. 

“I know.”

“Yes, of course you do.” 

“Recruitment season again, is it?” Sherlock asks contemptuously, as he pulls on his button-down. 

“So you know that too? I was beginning to wonder.”

“As you said: Of course I do.”

Anne shrugs and pushes past him, wide brown eyes catching his. “You should have said.”

“I didn't realize at first,” Sherlock admits, albiet reluctantly. “I was-- slow. I fell quite neatly for the lawyer bait. ” Anne flashes a smile at him, recognizing the grudging compliment. 

“Not that slow, apparently. And don’t take it personally: if it wasn’t a fantastic cover, I wouldn’t be able to use it.” She folds herself onto his bed, crossing her legs daintily. 

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the flattery. “I’m still not going to help you.” 

“That’s what I thought you’d say-” She traces the black and grey pattern of his bedding thoughtfully. “Remember when we were younger? And we’d play at being pirates or spies together?” 

“A child’s world. Have you never grown up?”

Anne raises an eyebrow. “Rich, coming from you.”

“I’m not leaving London.”

“You have nothing to tie you--please, Sherlock. What’s the use of solving little crimes in the city when you could be doing so much good in the world? It’s a waste of your talent--”

“I don’t want to do good in the world,” Sherlock snaps. “I don’t need to be told what to do by my brother or the British government---”

“You wouldn’t have to.” Anne slips off the bed and then she’s next to him, hand gently overlaying his. “We’re fairly independent from the government: it’s perfect for you. We’d find you your own place, you wouldn’t have to take orders from anyone. Your own department, even. And you wouldn’t have to deal with all the red tape that comes with police investigations-- no paperwork, no court cases, just the end goal---”

“No.”

“You’re just being stubborn! You’d have everything: the field work, the danger, your precious game--”

“I know how you lot live. You work 24/7 for the base, no family, no personal life---”

“As if you wouldn’t work 24/7 if you could,” she challenges. “And we ARE each other’s family Sherlock. Not that you care for that anyways.”

“I do-- I do care. It’s not just family-- it’s---” 

She lays a finger on his cheek and he's suddenly aware that he never bothered to button his shirt. “Oh. I see. If that’s all then---”

“No. That’s not it. I don’t want-- that--Not from you. ” He realizes belatedly what she’s offering, the flash in her eyes eerily reminiscent of a certain dominatrix. 

Anne doesn’t appear to take it personally. “Oh. I suppose I should have known. /Friends/ huh?”

“Yes.” Sherlock swallows and blinks at her. “The only one I’ve got.”

“Well, that’s not quite true.” Her gaze softens. “I understand. But he’s not-- not with his injury. And you’d only be putting him in danger: if you thought he was a walking target before---”

“This speculation is a useless waste of my time. I am not considering your offer, therefore, it is irrelevant.”

“Oh, but you’re tempted. Admit it, Sherlock. You’ve been bored. Ever since you got rid of Moriarty-- There are others like him you know.”

“I’m not ‘tempted’ in the slightest.” 

“Yes. Yes, you are, or else you’d have kicked me out long ago. 

Sherlock tightens his lips and wrenches open the door. “Very well then. Leave.”

“Think about it, please?”

Sherlock waves her through and slams the door pointedly after her.

He’s not interested. /He’s not./ Not in being manipulated like a pawn: His independence is too dearly bought for him to sell his soul-- Sherlock slides down the wall, hands automatically steepling under his chin. 

What if they didn’t though? What if, truly, they let him pick his games? Sherlock imagines it for a second, the thrill of meeting minds against the most powerful crime lords, terrorist cells, masterminds--how much more fun was a chase, when the stakes were high and the criminals clever? Not the riff-raff of the streets, but the truly brilliant, god he hasn't seen someone like that since--Well. 

He’d miss it though. Running through the damp back-alley streets, John by his side---

John. He’d miss John. 

And that’s really the crux of it, isn’t it? 

John versus never being bored again. Never having to deal with bureaucracy or a dearth of cases. His blogger, versus a life lived in the shadows, dedicated to the game.

The work. The work always came first. He’d told John that, the first time he’d met him, never made a secret of how devoted he was. He’d never pretended to be something he was not, had he? 

Sherlock glances at the mirror and frowns. Reichenbach has left it's mark on him. There’s a streak of pepper grey in his hair that wasn’t there 4 years ago, a brutal sharpness to his features that hasn’t gone away yet, despite John’s best attempts to feed him up . He slides one hand down his neck, brushing over the bruised skin that’s mottling colorfully already and hesitates. Maybe, quite possibly, he’s not the same man he was. And yet---

Anne’s right, much as it pains him to admit it. He’s not unbearably bored, not yet, but he will be. The cases have been drying up. Yes, there's the occasional passably intelligent crime, but, the flair, the /genius/, is gone from the world---- Not that he misses Moriarty. But the incessant humming of his brain is running out of stimulation and there’s an overwhelming chaos somewhere on the edge of it. Tedium and stagnation make him bitter, cold, and John takes so much, but it's only going to get worse, unless he finds a distraction, and he's running out of them. 

John tries to understand, he does, but no one truly does. Not anymore. 

It occurs to him, idly, that somewhere, in some dank hell, Moriarty is laughing. Absurd. A ridiculously fanciful thought, that, and one which jolts Sherlock out of his current reverie. 

He doesn’t have to make a decision now. 

It can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to everyone who reads! I truly appreciate it and especially comments, crit, etc. They help me improve as a writer, so have at it.
> 
> EDIT: my lovely new beta (Tabby) and I are working on the next chapters of this fic. I have finals all next week, so likely nothing will get posted until at least the 16th of December: Sorry for the delay and thanks for reading!!


	15. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I'm so sorry for how long this update took. But there's smut, so forgive me? (Or hate me, depending on your feelings on that haha)
> 
> There should be another chapter in the next day or so and then it might be a bit again: On the bright side, part of the reason it's taking longer (besides the craziness that is my life and the laziness that is my worst fault) is that I have a lovely beta, who's done an epic job of editing/putting up with me. And all this while writing her thesis: a round of gratuitous applause for TabbyTabsen, please!

“Sherlock?”

Silly question, really. No one else would be pounding furiously at his bedroom door at 1am in the morning. John opens the door and, sure enough, there’s the world’s only consulting detective, garbed in holey pajamas and a silk robe that probably (definitely) cost more than half of John’s wardrobe.

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock mutters, stalking forwards and sprawling ungracefully onto John’s bed.

“No-- No, what are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to finish changing into your pajamas so that I can take them off?”

“God--- /No/.”

“Sorry?”

“Sherlock,” John begins with as much patience as he can muster, “we’re in your mother’s house and honestly, I wouldn’t put it past her to try and check in on us--”

“She’s far too preoccupied with the party at the moment.”

“Yeah? Well, good. That’s good, isn’t it?” John mutters, distractedly ruffling his hair as he talks.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“John, we’ve known each other for the past 3 1/2 years, I’m perfectly aware when you’re trying to hide something from me.”

“6,” John corrects automatically. He’s not quite sure the rest of the sentence is strictly accurate either, but decides not to comment.

“I don’t count the time we didn’t spend together,” Sherlock sniffs, as if it’s obvious and maybe, to him, it really is that simple, but John suddenly feels as if someone’s punched him without warning.

“Right. God forbid I forget about the time you left me to mourn you.”

Sherlock eyes him warily. “John, you know it was necessary-- we’ve had this conversation--”

“Yes, yes, Moriarty’s network, great, you did the world a service, you know--”

“It wasn’t-” Sherlock cuts himself off and John sits on the edge of the bed, sighing.

“Let’s not.”

“By far the most sensible thing you’ve said all day,” Sherlock snaps, turning his back to John.

John knows better than to take the bait. But there’s a question that’s nagging at him, a question that he never thought would bother him but, in fact, does. Rather a lot.

“Sherlock--- what did you tell your family, when you told them you were bringing me?”

“That I was bringing a guest?”

John doesn’t know what he was expecting. It’s an honest answer to a loaded question, but, of course, the great detective wouldn’t pick up on that. Sometimes, with Sherlock, it’s best to break things off into tiny, digestible pieces. Particularly emotional things.

“Right. Okay. But if you were introducing me, what would you say I am?”

“Really John, it depends on the context. Flatmate, I suppose. Colleague. You seem rather disinclined towards ‘friend’, if I recall---”

“Sherlock, that was ages ago, you can’t still be on about it---” -(But apparently, Sherlock IS still on about it)- “You utter wanker, how many times do I have to tell you that when Sebastian said ‘friends’ he meant something utterly different than what you did?”

“You mean he was trying to imply we were sleeping together. We ARE sleeping together.”

“But we weren’t then,” John returns, exasperated. “You know for the most intelligent man on the continent, you’re a right idiot sometimes.”

Sherlock huffs and continues to face the drapery, the petulant lines of his back telling John precisely how he feels about that.

John snorts a bit, curling himself in behind the sulky form and slipping a hand over Sherlock’s t- shirt. He can feel the quickly pounding heartbeat under the thin cotton and nuzzles his face into the thick black curls.

“I just want to know,” he says, in what he hopes is his ‘reasonable’ voice, “what this is to you. Not to your family or your friends, but what /you/ want to call this.”

“This?”

“US, Sherlock.” He can’t help the hint of frustration that creeps in.

Sherlock tenses and, for a moment, John thinks he’s not going to answer. His voice is low and gravelly when he finally does, clipped. Defensive, John thinks, and reflexively tightens his hold, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“I don’t see why it matters. It’s you and me, John. Categorization is for other people: if they feel the need to label, fine, but why should it bother us?”

“Because-- I don’t know. I’d like to know where I stand with you?”

“You don’t?”

There’s something vulnerable in the question, something that causes John to say,”Oh, for Christ’s sake, come here you dolt.”

He rolls Sherlock over and Sherlock promptly straddles him, his knees pinning John’s chest to the bed.

Better. Breathing a bit of a problem, but he needs to see Sherlock’s face for this. “I mean, we’re friends--- who shag---” John begins cautiously.

“Very good friends,” Sherlock clarifies for him, hands coming down to rest on his shoulders.

John sighs. “Right, clearly, but--”

He can feel Sherlock freeze over him. “I presumed that was what you felt. If not---”

“No. /No/,” John cuts him off too quickly, not even wanting to hear the end of that thought. “It’s fine. It’s all-- god, Sherlock, it’s more than fine.”

And it sort of is, looking at it from Sherlock’s perspective. The detective’s given everything to John that he can: so what if “I love you” hasn’t been programmed into his system? John’s the one he sleeps with and drags around on his crime scenes, the one whose every scar he’s cataloged: that’s Sherlock’s version of love, probably.

“Not your fault your family is nutters either, is it?” John mumbles, dragging him down by his dressing gown and allowing his face duck into Sherlock’s collarbone.

Sherlock goes limp over him, the tension receding as he fits their foreheads together and stares down at him. His foot rubs idly on the outside of John’s calf, pushing up the material just slightly.

“Are they really?” he asks disinterestedly.

“Mental. Completely. Fucking. Mental.”

“Mmhmm. Luckily you only have me to deal with then.”

Sherlock doesn't even seem remotely surprised and it makes John feel just a bit better. If Sherlock himself isn’t taking his family too seriously, than probably he’s just being silly by dwelling on Violet’s cutting words earlier. Maybe all they need to do is get through this weekend. Still-- 

“I’ll think I’ll be glad when this is ov-”

Sherlock’s clearly bored of the conversation by this point, if the way he cuts off John’s words with a quick kiss is any indication. 

“Be that as it may, you do still owe me.”

It takes John a second but then his mind flashes back to the balcony. 

“Oh. Well, if I recall correctly, you were gagging for it and I told you to shut the fuck up.”.

Sherlock’s lips cover his ear, pressing sweetly to the outer shell. “Want to reconsider, Dr. Watson?” One hand slips down and palms John through his pajamas and yes, if he wasn’t interested before, he definitely is now. He wonders briefly exactly when this inability to deny Sherlock anything is going to get him into heaps of trouble, before realizing that it’s really a bit late to be asking that question.

“God yes,” he says instead. He rubs his hands up under Sherlock’s t-shirt, drawing it up around his chest and kissing his flat belly. The mad urge of before has died down, leaving him feeling a bit foolish, but also oddly sentimental. He wants to hold Sherlock, undress him slowly, turn him into a needy, whimpering mess on the bed sheets, but he’s not sure he can. Love is accepted between them, but romance rarely survives Sherlock’s disdain.

Sherlock watches him curiously. It’s his deducing look, the one where someone’s secrets are about to be laid bare and John’s suddenly sure that he doesn’t want to hear it, whatever conclusion he’s come to. He pulls him down to kiss him, determined to smear the words away from him mouth. Sherlock tenses slightly, as if guessing John’s motives, but John holds him down, their lips pressed together without movement, praying that Sherlock will give him this, at least.

After what seems an eternity, Sherlock relaxes, his long fingers pressing into John’s throat, mouth opening to deepen the kiss. John flips him over and Sherlock growls in impatience, pulling at John’s t-shirt and then at his own trousers, but John grasps his wrist, stopping him.

“No- dammit. Sherlock, I---” Curiousity and confusion war for space on Sherlock’s face and John impulsively kisses the corner of his mouth again, threading their fingers together.

“I love you,” he says instead, and Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him, questioning this departure from their routine.

“So that you can’t blame it on hormones,” John tells him, something oddly heavy rising in his chest. “So that you know I mean it.”

Sherlock stares at him for a second and then suddenly presses up against him, arms looping around his neck. “Idiot,” he tosses back, inhaling sharply. “John, I--I--”

“Don’t,” John bites off raggedly. “Just-- please don’t, love,” and miraculously, Sherlock shuts up, eyes fluttering closed even as his arms tighten fractionally. His fingers trace an irregular pattern over John’s shoulders and John doesn’t even know if he’s aware of doing it. If he’s aware that he’s moaning softly as John pulls off the rest of their clothes or that his legs wrap around John’s waist afterwards, his cock hard against between them.

“Please--”

“Shh--shh---quiet.” John strokes damp curls off of Sherlock’s forehead, all too aware of how thin the walls must be.

He nudges Sherlock’s knees until he spreads his legs, fingers him until he’s desperate and Sherlock, uncharacteristically, lets him do so without a fight, biting into John’s shoulder to muffle his moans when John slides into his body. John cups the back of his head, wanting to pull him back by the hair, to hear the needy sounds that confirm again that Sherlock is his, but sound will carry here and John, despite what Violet may think, wasn’t actually raised in the jungle. 

He settles for an open-mouthed kiss, so that he can feel Sherlock’s whimpering against his lips. Their lips drag together, hot and sweet and John’s cradling Sherlock against him, their non- dominant hands tangled together against Sherlock’s chest, the rhythm building slowly.

John bites his lips down when he comes, fingers working on Sherlock’s cock until he’s there too, trembling underneath him. He’s beautiful like this, pliant and flushed, not that John would dare voice that sentiment aloud too many times. 

His penchant for danger doesn’t stretch that far.

“John.” Sherlock untangles himself, before turning on his side so that he can fling a possessive arm across John’s chest. His territory, like the rest of the bed, is the implication, but John hardly minds. Sherlock, for some reason, staked a claim on him the moment they met and he's never wanted to challenge that.

His thoughts drift and he wonders how he never realized that he could hardly be the first person to get caught up in the brilliant whirlwind that is Sherlock-- if he'd bothered to think about it, at all, it was obvious, wasn't it, that someone would have wanted the detective enough to see through his prickly exterior? And chances were that Sherlock would have appreciated at least one of them, disdainful though he claimed to be of all admiration--

"JOHN," Sherlock demands again.

“Hmm?” John turns to him, slipping an arm around his narrow waist. He’d gotten lost in thought there, for a bit, but Sherlock’s watching him closely.

“You’re still upset," he notes flatly. “I told you, whatever happened with Victor is long in the past.”

“He’s an intelligent man with good prospects,” John quotes without thinking, wondering vaguely whether he just came up with that or whether he filched it from one of his sister’s Jane Austen novels. Not that Sherlock would know the difference.

“And some would say the same about Mycroft, but that hardly makes me like him any better.”

“Sherlock, that’s-- He’s your /brother/.” Sometimes John wonders if Sherlock is purposefully obtuse. He gazes down at Sherlock’s befuddled expression and decides that it’s unlikely. “No, I’m sorry-- you and Victory clearly have history and I--”

“If you want to know so badly, John, you can just ask.” Sherlock’s eyes are half-closed, limbs loose, but his nails dig a bit into John’s skin and his voice sharpens infinitesimally.

“No,” John says quietly. “Not if you don’t want to tell me.” Which is mostly true, at any rate.

“It’s not important,” Sherlock says finally. “Victor is a coward and his father is a bigot and I find that the former is unforgivable and the later is infuriating. Deduce what you will.” 

“I-right. Sorry.”

“Why?”

“It’s just what people say-- look, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. And Victor isn’t the point, not really. ” 

“Explain.”

That’s a lot easier than it sounds, as even John isn’t sure what he means. There’s him and there’s Sherlock, but there’s also a voice that won’t shut up, that wonders exactly what Sherlock is doing here. The voice that further notes that Sherlock has never properly answered that question.

“I just-- so maybe Victor was a bad example. But look, sex and friendship are all good, Sherlock, but you and that girl, Anne --don’t you ever want anything like that?”

Sherlock pushes himself onto one elbow, eyebrow raised. “Like what?”

“Like--” Like someone beautiful and posh and intelligent, who slides seamlessly into this household.

Sherlock looks genuinely puzzled. “Like what? Like Anne? Why would I want Anne?”

“Not just Anne. Just- you could have anyone you know.”

Sherlock snorts. “No, I couldn’t.”

John feels something uneasy stir in the pit of his stomach. Is that why Sherlock’s here then? Because he doesn’t feel like he’s worthy of anything else?

“You’re a genius, not to mention somewhat dashing and wealthy. I think---”

“No. I believe the proper explanation is that I’m an arse and you put up with me.”

That stops John for a second. “There’s that.”

“Exactly. And I am,” Sherlock insists. He sounds befuddled, as if this conversation is completely irrelevant. “And no matter what Anne thinks she wants, I assure you, she’s completely mistake

“You’re assuming that. You don’t KNOW that Sherlock---”

“I’m fairly sure. But I’m absolutely certain that I’d rather be here with you.”

“Why?”

Sherlock is clearly getting annoyed, his bottom lip protruding in frustration. “Are we going to harp on this for the rest of the night? I am here. I wish to be here and nowhere else. Whether or not anyone else is also mad enough to desire me in their bed is well besides the point.”

The uneasiness spreads, unabated by Sherlock’s words, but there’s a bit of pain now too. That Sherlock could, even after all this time, consider himself unlovable. That he could speak of it with the cynical detachment that he does. There’s so much here that they need to talk about, but then Sherlock pulls him closer and John just knows that analyzing Sherlock’s attempts at emotions on a fuzzy brain will get him nowhere.

“Just one more thing, Sherlock--”

“Hmm--?”

John turns around and places a hand on either side of Sherlock’s face, drawing him closer.

“You,” he says honestly, eyes fixed upon the silver ones in front of him, “Are absolutely an impossible arse.”

Sherlock snorts. “I’m hardly impossible, I’m here. Improbable, ye--””

“But,”-John clamps a firm hand over the still moving lips and continues doggedly-“You are also the most amazing, brilliant, and beautiful human being I have ever met.”

Sherlock cautiously grips his wrists. “So you’ve said.”

“I just---”

Sherlock cuts him off, pressing languorous kisses to the side of his mouth. “Thank you,” he says, his eyes a bit desperate, as if he recognizes the inadequacy of his words. “I meant-- thank you. For-- all of it.” 

And John wonders, for the first time, if maybe it’s him and not Sherlock who’s missing something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major props if you can figure out TV show I filched one of Sherlock's lines from, btw. I don't even like the show, but that line...
> 
> Comments and crit loved and appreciated as always :)


	16. Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the universe is conspiring against Mycroft Holmes. CLEARLY.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta wanted to know why Mycroft always carries an umbrella, even in the house. So confession time:I have no idea either, but I'm not about to question Mycroft Holmes, are you? I'm sure he has a very good reason indeed, but hell will freeze over before he lets ME in on it.

From the moment Sherlock drags himself into the kitchen for a late breakfast, Mycroft knows it’s going to be a terrible day. If he believed in karma, he’d wonder how many innocents he must have murdered in some previous life to deserve Sherlock as his retribution.

It is, he reflects, a very good thing indeed that he doesn’t believe in karma. He proceeds to shift his attention to his Blackberry instead, but Sherry, on her fifth or so cup of coffee already, is not so tactful.

“Had a good time last night?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock growls, as he flops into a seat . Sherry stares pointedly at his throat, where a purpling bruise splatters in stark contrast to his milky skin. Sherlock smirks and spills some of the coffee as he pulls it towards him. Mycroft eyes him disdainfully from across the table.

“Can you please contain yourself, brother?” /Can you please not be an embarrassment/ is what he means and he knows Sherlock knows it too, but of course the infuriating brat simply rolls his eyes and attempts to swipe a piece of buttered toast off of Sherry’s plate. She stabs her fork into it and they wrestle silently for a few moments, before he gives up and takes a plain piece from the stack in the middle.

Mycroft makes a show of picking up his newspaper (which he doesn’t need to read) and remarks blandly: “I don’t know why Dr. Watson puts up with you.”

“What's that about Dr. Watson?”

John shuffles in sleepily, rubbing his eyes. His eyes slide over to his pajama-clad beloved, currently spraying toast crumbs over the table as he leans back in his chair,bruised neck clearly on display above his t-shirt. 

At least /he/ has the grace to look mildly abashed, unlike the twat he’s chosen to fall in love with. Mycroft never will understand how his brother managed to land someone so remarkably sane.

Sane being a relative term, of course.

John ruffles his hair sheepishly. “Oh. Er-Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Would you like to--- Maybe a nice turtleneck?”

“Why on earth would I do that? So restricting.”

“Your scarf, then.”

“In the /house/?” Sherlock has yet to look up from where he’s tracing a pattern onto the table cloth, but his voice rises in indignation at the last.

John walks over and presses a kiss into Sherlock's bed-rumpled curls, a slightly cheeky grin flashing briefly across his face. “You’re right. I’m an idiot."

“Clearly.” Sherlock tilts his face up hopefully for another kiss and Mycroft indulges in a particularly aggressive cough. There are limits to what one should be forced to endure before noon, after all, and Mycroft’s frankly still a bit nauseous from last night.

John pulls away, face turning a bit red.

“Oh no, please continue,” Sherry remarks dryly. “I love a good show first thing in the morning, don’t you, Mycroft?”

“I would hardly consider it a ‘good’ show, my dear,” Mycroft sneers delicately.

“True. Like I said before--vanilla.” Sherry, much to his ire, chooses to deliberately misunderstand him. “Very vanilla.” 

Sherlock ignores her, taking another vicious bite of his toast, but John merely grins good- naturedly as he pulls up a chair, having somehow acclimatized quite rapidly to her rather childish sense of humor. “Oh, wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Sister, Mycroft reminds himself with a sigh. Even if he hadn’t had a full background check done on John (a necessary trifle for Sherlock’s every acquaintence, of course), he’d know it from John’s phone. Clearly a sister, judging from the style of the phone and the inscription. But Sherlock had thought it was a brother, because Sherlock was an imbecile who let his own experience with HIS brother cloud his better judgment.

“I am sure about that.” Sherry wrinkles her nose in distaste. “I have the bedroom next to yours.”

Sherlock glances sharply at her, looking up from his plate for the first time. “In hiding again, were you?”

“In hiding? You hardly seem like the shy sort to me,” John remarks lightly, latching onto the subject change (his ears are red again). “Were you really up there for the entire party?”

Sherry glares at him, mood shifting instantaneously, and Mycroft mentally ups his tally of his past sins, because dear lord, how could he forget that there’s TWO of them.

John, who luckily posses at least a modicum of intelligence, subsides immediately

“Oh alright, no need to turn that look on me, I’ll shut up.”

“What look?” Sherlock asks him, mildly curious.

“I like to call it the look of impending doom. It’s that look /you/ get when you’re about to have an epic sulk and I’m somehow about to get blamed for it.”

“I don’t sulk,” Sherlock and Sherry snap at him at the same time. (Genocide. It must have been genocide. There is no other explanation.)

John shrugs and pulls over a plate of biscuits, apparently unruffled by the fact that karma clearly has a vendetta against Mycroft Holmes. “Right, whatever you say.”

Mycroft thinks longingly of his plush little office in London, far removed from his family. Just a few days, he promises himself. And then he can go back to comfortably watching them all through security cameras.

But there’s a few things he needs to deal with here first.

...........

“Sherlock, a moment, if you would.”

John pauses in the doorway of the breakfast room, but Mycroft waves him on. “Just with my brother, if you don’t mind, John. A touch of family business, as it were.”

John looks a bit surprised. “Oh, okay--”

“You can say whatever it is you must in front of John,” Sherlock informs him defensively, but, John is, as always, a bit politer.

“No, it’s alright Sherlock. I need to get ready anyways. I’ll see you upstairs, yeah?”

Mycroft restrains himself from wincing at the blatant smirk Sherlock sends John’s way. “Indeed.”

The door swings shut behind the doctor’s retreating back and Sherlock flops in a seat, blinking irately up at Mycroft from under his thick fringe.

“Quite done flirting? Apologies if I’m distracting,” Mycroft says dryly.

“Get to the point, Mycroft.”

“Oh surely you can guess, brother?” There’s a bit of lint on his suit. Mycroft frowns at it for being presumptuous enough to land on his clothing. 

“If it’s got to do with John-”

“I understand you’ve received on offer.” Mycroft rolls his eyes as he fastidiously brushes himself off.

Sherlock bites his lip. “Oh. Yes.”

“And-?”

“And it’s hardly any of your business, is it?”

Ungrateful brat.

"Sherlock--"

The child-man in question props his feet on the table, knocking over an empty glass of juice. Probably out of sheer spite.

Mycroft despairs of him.

“If that’s all, then you’re a bit slow on the uptake, Mycroft. I’ve already decided I’m rejecting the offer.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Why is what? I’m refusing the job because the likelihood of a position existing exactly as she described it is slim. You’re slow because you’ve been over-indulging in the pastries again.”

That’s a bit unfair, as Mycroft, save for the chocolate digestive of yesterday, has stayed well away from the holiday fare and he’s rather inclined to blame that one on Sherlock. Another few minutes of this obstinance and Mycroft is going to need a whole cake. He sighs.

“You expect me to believe your decision has nothing to do with an attachment to your current lifestyle? Nothing to do with 221B Baker Street or your aquaintences there? John, perhaps?”

Sherlock’s face shutters off. “Of course not. I simply doubt that her work can be anything so exciting: and I’m beginning to suspect you put her up to it.”

“You know quite well that’s not true.”

“What isn’t true?”

Mycroft idly wonders how effective umbrellas are as murder weapons. Best not risk it: he’s rather fond of his umbrella. 

“I can assure you that /I/ have not put her up to this: I can also assure you that the position she is offering you is everything she claims it to be: you would have your independence and the work as well.”

Sherlock bites his lip in consternation. “Then you believe I should accept her offer?”

“My dear brother: I can hardly make that choice for you. However, it is my duty to remind you that everything comes at a price.”

Mycroft is halfway to the door by the time Sherlock realizes what he means. “I see. Touching. I didn’t think sentiment was your style, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft allows himself to savor the sweet taste of his upcoming victory, before turning back, swirling his umbrella. 

“Quite correct, it isn’t. But, judging by history, sentiment certainly is /your/ style, isn’t it Sherlock?”

All in all, Mycroft thinks as he walks out, dramatic prop firmly in hand, every bit of this wretched morning was worth it to see Sherlock’s face so pricelessly flabbergasted.


End file.
